The Long Shadow
by dancesabove
Summary: The backstory of Christopher Foyle, some details of which are revealed in the "The Hide," the final episode of FOYLE'S WAR. At least, the final episode so far - we live in hope! Warning: SPOILERS if you've not seen that episode! Co-written with Jewell.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Long Shadow

Authors: dancesabove and jewell

Rating: T+

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in _Foyle's War_ belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and we in no way profit from the story we've written.

A/N: Please don't read this story unless you've seen "The Hide," the final episode of _Foyle's War,_ as this immediately gives away the big reveal in that marvelously intricate episode.

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

Christopher Foyle could not figure out quite where he was as he slowly came to, but it was clear he was not in the trenches or on the field. He could see things only in a vague and unfocused way, as if he had his eyes open under water. When finally the world became clearer, he could see a dingy white tin ceiling above him, and smell antiseptic. He tried to shift and sit up, but a stabbing pain in his shoulder stopped him abruptly. Like autumn leaves falling into a pattern, his thoughts drifted together to form a likely answer to all the questions popping in his mind.

_Hospital. Or infirmary of some kind. Dozens of beds; men sleeping, men moaning in pain, and nurses hurrying. I was hurt. Running with my bayonet, something burning my shoulder, down I went. Was I shot?_

Gingerly Foyle moved his right hand toward his left shoulder, which was heavily bandaged, the arm braced as if it had been broken. His tentative touch of it made it leap with pain, and he threw his head back as he winced.

"Oh, no, try not to move."

He looked up at the young nurse who had halted at the foot of his bed. Though she looked almost too young to be yet out of her teens, she had an elegant, sloe-eyed quality that made her seem more mature. Soft dark brown hair curled softly about the edges of her white cap, and her irises were palest blue.

"You were shot through the shoulder and you must keep very still so that it will heal properly." She smiled.

The young soldier felt his heart hitch at her loveliness, and it flashed through his mind that there was something cool about her bearing at the same time that her smile was warm.

A doctor hurrying by the row of beds noticed that Foyle was awake. He glanced worriedly further down the line at a man whose condition seemed beyond a nurse's capabilities, but paused for a moment to say to Christopher, "You were extremely fortunate not to have any bones shattered. The bullet hit between your collarbone and scapula—shoulder blade," he added, when the young man looked puzzled.

The physician moved abruptly away in answer to an urgent summons from somewhere to Foyle's right. The fetching nurse moved closer towards him. "Do you need anything?" she asked in a soothing contralto voice.

"Um…where am I?"

"You're in an Army Hospital just east of Brighton."

"East of Brighton?" he asked, confused. So he wasn't still in France. He was badly enough injured that they had sent him home. Why couldn't he remember any of the journey? It must have taken days.

His face brightened and he chuckled briefly.

"What's that?" the young nurse asked.

"Well, if we're east of Brighton, I'm almost home. I come from Hastings."

"Jolly good! Then you'll have family here for you."

A shadow crossed his face, dimming his intense blue eyes.

"No, there's no one." A pause. "Could I possibly have a drink of water?"

She wanted to ask about his family, but that could wait. Water.

She fetched a glass and carefully helped him raise enough to sip.

Her touch felt like fire to him. The pain in his shoulder was sharp, but the heat of her hand and arm across his back was what he noticed. O God! How long had it been since he'd seen such an attractive young woman, let alone had her touch him?

He needed a distraction.

"What is this place? I mean what was it, before?"

"Ah, you'd remember it as St. Alban's School."

"Yes, I know it well." He had been to St. Alban's not long before he volunteered, to look into a case of vandalism.

"Forgive me," he added. "My name is Christopher Foyle. Are you from near here?"

"Yes, Sergeant Foyle," she smiled, "we knew you from your disc. "I'm Caroline Devereaux. I'm afraid I must help some of the other patients. Is there anything else you need?"

He hated to see this beauty leave his side.

"Please, one thing: I don't remember any of the journey from France—I don't remember much at all. Getting wounded, anything… Is my shoulder all that's wrong with me?"

"I'll have to ask the doctor to explain it properly, but it seems it's common after receiving a wound such as yours to suffer a slight memory loss. It doesn't help that you soldiers are generally in a constant state of exhaustion from battle. It's normal."

It wasn't normal for _him_ to suffer a memory loss, but she smiled so winsomely that he just nodded his head and agreed. Then again, it wasn't normal for _him_ to get shot.

"I'll come by and check up on you in a bit."

Christopher smiled, and watched as she walked away. He was exhausted… but if he slept he might miss her return. _Caroline Devereaux. Stay awake! Such a sweet smile. Open your eyes! Those pretty eyes... She smelled good, too._

He slept.

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Nurse Devereaux peered at herself in the mirror late that night, trying not to bemoan the fine lines around her eyes that revealed the lack of sleep of the past few days. It was as nothing compared to some of the more experienced nurses—the _real_ nurses, as she thought of them—who had more than a few weeks' governmental training in helping with what the actual medical personnel at the Army hospitals were handling. The real nurses often had to be on their feet for 14 hours or more, and this wasn't even a field hospital. The wounded just kept coming in and coming in, no matter _where_ the hospital, and every medical site could take all the Voluntary Aid Detachment helpers it could get.

Caroline had volunteered because she wanted to help her country, but in truth it was not the only reason. She had to get out of that gilded cage of a house, and away from the tension of life with Charles. They had only been married a year, and already she greatly regretted it. He had seemed a nice enough fellow, and she had never felt much in love with _any _of the young men she had met, at least not for long; so the chance to move up a notch in society and to live a more-than-comfortable life was agreeable enough, though Caroline's ambitions in these directions were not as driving as her mother's.

But as lord of the manor Charles had an imperial air and looked askance at her youthful sense of fun and her preference for simplicity. She couldn't get him to picnic or go out dancing; to take walks or look for birds, or to sit and enjoy lovely music. She couldn't get him to do much _any_thing except provide a home base for weekend parties and hunts; she had begun to suspect that his interest in marrying her had far more to do with her charm and organisational ability as a hostess than with any admiration of her mind or depth of feeling for her. Often his behaviour toward her expressed quite the opposite: a shortness of temper and condescension she had never sensed during their courtship, and even a look of disgust in reaction to any show of ardour on her part. It wasn't that they had no marital relations, but those had to be on his terms—which were at times frightening, involving his having had too much to drink and bearing the quality of proving something to himself or to her.

And as hard and heartbreaking as this nursing work was, it provided a welcome change; a bit of adventure. Not to mention a connexion with the estimable staff working so hard to take care of these remarkable men who seemed to be fighting a losing battle. Somehow they kept (well, most of them kept) a steadiness of purpose and a lightness of attitude through the hell they had seen, earning her deepest respect.

That soldier who finally woke today, for instance. The one with the curly hair and the gentle blue eyes. Despite his painful wound and his obvious confusion and the lonely way he had admitted he had no family nearby, he had laughed for a moment and had seemed to warm her with his admiring gaze.

* * *

><p>Foyle woke abruptly and reached for his rifle. Not finding it, he became fully awake. <em>Oh yes, hospital. He was safe.<em> He looked to see what had awakened him. A nurse was tending the moaning patient in the next bed. Hearing Foyle stir, she glanced over her shoulder at him. "I'll be with you in a moment."

She was a tall, slender lady of around forty-five, not the nurse Foyle was hoping to see. As he came more awake he realised that it was dark; the lights in the ward were dim. _I missed her. When will she next be working? _He shook his head at himself._ You fool._

His shoulder was throbbing and his mouth was dry. The patient in the next bed finally quieted, the nurse turned to Christopher. "I imagine your pain medicine has worn off by now. I'll get you some more so you may sleep. Sleep is the best thing for your recovery." She went down the long row of beds.

Foyle tried to put the pain out of his mind. He wondered how his unit was doing without him. Who was leading them? The young men, just teenagers most of them, were so frightened and so brave.

It was winter now, February 1916; _will it be over this year?_ The trenches were so cold. Muddy and cold. But the fighting wasn't as intense now as it had been near Loos last autumn.

They had been ordered again and again to attack the German lines in October and November, with little success. They had lost so many men that he had been promoted from Corporal to Sergeant. He could still hear the sound of the machine guns; still feel the fear in his stomach as he led his men—boys—across the broken field. Why wasn't he wounded then? Or killed? So many of his comrades were killed or injured.

But he wasn't wounded until he'd spent another three months in the freezing, stinking trenches. A routine reconnaissance sortie. He and Hill and Lighthall. Out, check the wire, scan for German activity and then back to the ostensible comfort of home—their trench. Unluckily, they came upon a German patrol. He didn't remember much after that. Running towards the Germans, and then…

The tall nurse returned, interrupting his thoughts. "Here Sergeant, drink this." She assisted him and said, "This will help you sleep, shortly."

"What time is it?"

"It's almost midnight. Are you hungry?"

"No, not at all."

"Well, that's good, because it's hard to find even a morsel at this time of night. Now you lie back and have a rest. You'll feel better in no time."

Foyle thanked her and she bustled off in a starchy white cloud.

His shoulder still throbbed. There was no possibility of sleep until the pain eased.

His thoughts returned to last autumn. So much had happened. After the fighting fell off the first part of November, the post had caught up with them. That's when he received the letter telling him his father was dead. He could still see the grey morning in the rain-soaked trench, when he held the letter so loosely in his hand that it fluttered and nearly got away. His father, dead. It didn't seem possible. Sergeant Foyle of the Hastings Constabulary seemed like one of the elements; the younger Foyle thought that the elder would still be left when all else had disappeared.

Of course, Father was dead and had been buried weeks earlier. Not that the Army would have let his son return to England for the funeral, but it somehow seemed even crueler not to have known. All through the bloody fighting, all through the endless attacks, all through the near-crippling fear of going "up and over", his father had already been dead. Machine guns pounding, shells exploding, the cries of dying men. And his father was already dead. It didn't seem possible.

And Mum, frail most of the time, hadn't taken her husband's death well. She was staying in Leicester with her sister, Ivy. It was Aunt Ivy who had written him about his father. _Mum is surely unwell if she couldn't even write me of Father's death._

At least she would be spared the worry of his wounding and hospitalisation. No one in the Regiment would know she was in Leicester. Foyle would write Mum and Aunt Ivy as soon as he was able, perhaps tomorrow. If he wrote instead of someone else it would be so much better for them. _Tomorrow, I'll write tomorrow. Perhaps Miss Devereaux will help me._

The pain in his shoulder had faded to a dull ache and his thoughts had become slow and plodding. Again, he slept.

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><p>TBC...<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The dawn brought a bright and cheery day—one that would have been bright and cheery for any season, but which was especially nice for February. Caroline Devereaux smiled as she walked briskly up the steps of the school-turned-hospital. Charles was to be away this weekend, and this, she realised guiltily, made her even happier. No entertaining boring old men and their boring old wives; no disapproving looks if she laughed or showed a sign of enjoying herself; no harsh words at her small suggestions of what they might do together. _It'll be lovely._

In all she was in a very good mood. She was looking forward to her work, to being useful both to the "real" nurses and to the patients. And, if she were honest, looking forward to blue eyes and curly hair.

After checking in with the matron, Mrs White, Caroline walked the ward to give a smiling greeting to each of the conscious patients before she began her real work of the day. She tended to be responsible for the simpler tasks, freeing up the sisters for the tougher cases. Her day was filled with taking and recording temperatures, changing some of the easier dressings, and helping the patients by emptying bedpans, replacing bed linens, bathing the men, and what she sometimes thought of as the most important thing: just spending time with them. Talking with them, reading them correspondence or books, and helping them write letters home seemed as crucial to their health as injections.

With a chuckle at herself she began in the ward so as to finish with Sergeant Foyle. She would be able to spend more time with him that way.

Foyle was awake when she walked in. His eyes followed her down the line of beds while she gave a smile and a nod to each patient. He received the same smile and nod. Or was there extra warmth in the smile directed his way?

_No, it's just your overactive imagination, _he chastised himself.

With disappointment he noticed she began her work far away from him, but he entertained himself with tracking her gradual progress through the ward. Presently it was time for his pain medicine, but a different nursing sister brought it to him and helped him sit up to take it. He requested that she leave him that way so that he could enjoy the beautiful day through the large arched windows. The nurse expertly fluffed pillows behind him and left him comfortable and able to observe the whole of the infirmary. And one nurse in particular.

_What was this big squarish room with its gothic style windows, before?_ he wondered. _A chapel? A room for assembly?_ He tried to remember from his quick look-through here before the war. Fifteen beds each side, filled with men bandaged in various ways. It was apparent from the marks on the floor that at times a centre row of beds was added.

A scan of the room told the young soldier that he certainly was not one of the most badly wounded. Miss Devereaux was just now helping an apparent adolescent with gauze over the right side of his face and his right arm missing from midway between his shoulder and where his elbow should have been. As Caroline pulled back sheets he could see further damage along the youngster's chest. The young man chatted happily with Nurse Devereaux even while grimacing often during the change of dressings. Foyle could see from their easy manner together and the signs of healing that the youth had been here for many days. _How long will I be here? And then what? Back to the trenches, I'm sure. _Britain could not long spare an experienced sergeant with all of his limbs still attached.

Nurse Devereaux started down the row of beds on his side, making it more difficult for him to surreptitiously watch her as closely. He glanced at her as often as possible but tried not to be obvious about it. At one point he was enormously discomfited to notice her giving a rather intimate sponge bath to a fellow soldier. The thought of Caroline Devereaux sponging his body—particularly that part of his body—both excited him and filled him with dread.

Her presence was already a stupefying distraction. She was lovely, yes; but he had seen women nearly as beautiful. With her, though, there was something else; an intensity when she looked at him that he'd never seen in any woman's eyes before. _Oh God, please give me control over my body. Please, no sponge bath!_

After decades had passed she finally was at his bedside, and they exchanged shy smiles.

"Hello, Sergeant Foyle. How are you feeling today?"

His eyes crinkled; nervously he tamped down his thrill. "Very well, thank you, Miss Devereaux."

"It's Mrs Devereaux, actually." She followed his eyes to her left hand. "Yes, well, Dr Lindsey is quite the tyrant about any jewellery. He believes it harbours dirt and that it's easier to scrub completely with no rings or bracelets or such. We leave them in the nurse's room at the beginning of our duty."

"Mrs Devereaux," he echoed hollowly, somewhat taken aback. Then he flashed a wan smile up at her and asked, "What sort of treatment do you have for me?"

"I'll be changing the dressing on your shoulder, sterilising your wound, and helping you clean up a bit." She smiled the smile that he could feel to the bottom of his feet. "I must warn you that sometimes patients find the cleaning of the wound and changing of the dressing—umm—unpleasant."

Foyle raised his eyebrow. "Sometimes?"

They both chuckled nervously. She removed the dressing on his shoulder carefully; still Foyle could not keep from wincing. With an apologetic frown she began to dab the wound with disinfectant.

His shoulder was on fire. He breathed out a groan. _Oh my God, the pain._

"Done with the front. It's looking quite good. Now lean forward so I can clean the back."

Foyle leaned forward. Mrs Devereaux braced him with her left arm while she quickly but thoroughly cleaned the exit wound. At one point he gasped and reflexively gripped her arm. "Almost finished," she murmured, holding back tears at the thought that she was hurting him.

The pain eased and he self-consciously released her arm.

"Hold still while I get a dressing on your back." She efficiently bandaged him and eased him back on the pillows. "Is sitting up all right, or do you need to lie back?"

"Sitting up is fine," he replied, though his voice cracked slightly.

Caroline applied a new dressing to the wound on the sergeant's upper chest.

"Stay right here while I dispose of these dressings and I'll bring a basin of warm water for a bath."

She laughed softly at his stricken, wide-eyed look. _Heavens, he's adorable._ "I think you'll be able to bathe yourself for the most part. I'll just help with some of the more impersonal but hard-to-reach spots."

Christopher was able to wash himself with only a modicum of help from the lovely young Mrs Devereaux.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked him hopefully.

"Yesss… I do need to write to my mother. She's staying with my aunt in Leicester and she won't have had word about my wounding or my being here in England."

"Very well, I'll fetch paper and pen and we'll get word to her."

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Sergeant."

Christopher had to drop his glance when Nurse Devereaux heard that his father had just died; the genuine sympathy and caring emanating from her eyes moved him nearly to tears. Foyle had tried at first to write a line of the letter, as it was his left arm that was most debilitated, but even penning the salutation seemed to command more coordination than he yet had, and he began to tremble so that he felt faintly sick. Gratefully he had allowed "his" nurse to take over.

"I think I've finally got used to the idea that he's gone," he admitted to her, "but I worry awfully about Mother. My aunt said in her letter that she seems to have lost interest in everything, since learning about Dad."

"Yes…" Caroline's eyes took on a distant look. "Sometimes that's the way, when two people are so close."

Christopher examined her expression, and had a sudden thought. "Um… is—is your husband… ?"

She realised what he was thinking, and shook her head. Her smile was an enigmatic blend of reassurance and irony. "Er, no… no, my husband Charles is an MP… not a soldier." She shook her head. "Not in danger."

Christopher had the oddest sense that it wasn't just because Charles' work was relatively safe that Caroline showed little of the fear or emotion a soldier's wife would do. Instinctively he knew that the "two people so close" to whom she had referred were not her spouse and herself. He furrowed his brow. _Why are you relieved to learn that? You know very well that nothing can come of this if she is married. _Disappointment flooded through him, followed by despair. _As if you'd want to make any woman wait for you, when you'll most likely end up dead…_

Caroline watched the play of emotions over the soldier's face. That was the fascinating thing about this young man; he could be so still and inscrutable, and yet have so many of his thoughts show in the quirks of his mouth; in his clear, sweet eyes… she realised all at once that she and Christopher were gazing at each other far too deeply and long.

Foyle shook his head to clear it, but did not smile. "I'm… I'm glad of that."

The nurse gave him a weak smile of gratitude, and read back to him the letter they had begun. "Dearest Mum, In case the news came through to you that I have been wounded, I want to reassure you that I am all right. It is not a severe wound, but I shall have to rest for about a month while I heal. I am not far from home and may even be able to recuperate there for part of the time. Aunt Ivy wrote that you have been melancholy, and that worries me…"

"I wonder if she is ill and they just aren't telling me," he mused suddenly.

_Are those tears in his eyes?_ Her heart lurched.

"Sergeant Foyle…" Caroline rose and brushed one unruly lock of hair from his brow. The look he cast up at her was filled with pain, but she knew it had nothing to do with his shoulder.

"Please…" he fixed his soft gaze on her again. "Won't you call me Christopher?"

She smiled softly, turning her hand to brush his temple with the backs of her fingers. He was in need of a shave, and the shadow of his beard was just visible. He shivered, and she had to shut her eyes.

"Only if you'll consent to call me Caroline." She tried to say it lightly, but her heart was beginning to pound. _What do you think you're doing?_

But she had never felt anything like this before, not towards anyone. The sharp, almost-painful pleasure of it was exhilarating, thrilling, and irresistible. She knew it was wrong and yet that seemed to be part of the excitement of it. One more look into his eyes and she knew that this was what it was to 'be in love'; and to feel more yearning than she ever had before. She felt dizzy, and had to sit down.

She was very still, perched there on the portable seat. His eyes on hers were full of concern, hers downcast. She abruptly took a gulp of a breath, shook her head minutely, and stood.

"Ser—" She paused. "Christopher, I must go. I'll see you tomorrow."

He tightly shut and then slowly reopened his eyes as she walked briskly away, then ran his hand wearily over his face.

As she was leaving the building a few minutes later, the head matron called to her.

"Mrs Devereaux" —Mrs White, who otherwise treated her well, always spoke her name as if it tasted foul— "Mrs Devereaux, I hate to ask, but would you be available at all to help this weekend?"

Caroline hesitated, thinking about the hour she had just spent with Sergeant Foyle. She enjoyed her work most times, she hoped to be of use; needed this feeling of helping the brave young men. Above all she craved the company of one brave young man who had quickly become more than important to her. And that was a problem.

She snapped her head up decisively and replied, "Yes, Mrs White, I'd be happy to help this weekend."

* * *

><p>The next two days, Thursday and Friday, passed in much the same way. A routine was established. The only bed next to Foyle held a seldom-conscious man, so without anyone to talk with, Foyle would frequently look up from his book to watch Caroline as she worked in the ward—he would carefully behave as if he wasn't watching her, and she would act as if she wasn't aware of his surveillance. Then, after spending the majority of the day ignoring each other, they would end the day together.<p>

She would minister to his wounds, help him walk as needed, now he was gaining a bit of strength; change his linens and help him shave or bathe. After these duties she would sit by his bedside and they would talk: books, music, fishing, birding, and childhood memories. Caroline would leave when the orderlies began to serve the evening meal, and Foyle would anxiously await her return.

There was entirely too much time for thinking, and since Caroline had told him she was married, Foyle had been thinking too much. She had told him too late—he had already begun to fall in love, and the quickness of his fall worried him slightly. Rationally, he knew that a young man fresh from the battlefield, wounded and also grieving the loss of a loved one, might look to the first kind woman for comfort. Emotionally, he knew that there was nothing false about his regard for Caroline. He had never felt this intensely about anyone; he had never desired a woman with as much fervour as he desired Caroline Devereaux.

Devereaux—there was the crux of the problem. Surely he couldn't be in love with a married woman. And to Charles Devereaux!

Charles Devereaux, who had been elected to Parliament just before the war and whose family had held land near Brighton since Christ was a corporal. It was an entirely untenable situation. She was married—married to gentry—and he was just a policeman's son destined to return to the bloody trenches.

To add to Christopher's strangely enjoyable misery, Caroline had scarcely any time with him on Saturday. As Head Nurse White had expected, several casualties were admitted into the ward that morning, and the doctors and most of the nurses were hard at work for such long hours that Nurse Devereaux was helping with everything for which she was even remotely qualified.

* * *

><p>Sunday morning Foyle looked up to see her arrive, looking utterly exhausted. Two of the younger nurses intercepted her just inside one of the doors and, after swiftly darting glances to see if Old Dragon White were about, asked for a word. Then (just casting his eyes slightly upward while appearing to read his book) he saw them briefly look his way and then whisper in a huddle as conspiratorial as the three little maids from school. By the time Caroline arrived at his bedside, she was smiling with a touch of embarrassment.<p>

"Some of my sisters believe I should have lighter duty after yesterday's rush. They claim you improve markedly when I sit with you, so for both your sake and mine, I should be allowed to do so for most of today."

His eyes widened. "Don't they know that… ?" _Well. Perhaps they don't mean it that way…_

She ducked her head sheepishly, and he furrowed his brow, bemused.

Leaning a little closer, she answered quietly, "They do. But they are very taken with the romance of it all. You know, Lancelot and Guinevere, and all that."

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Luh…Lancelot and uh…um… " Foyle stammered, blushing a vivid red. He was thankful that Caroline had the decency to look down and blush also.

"Uh, yesss, quite," Foyle was finally able to say. He arched one eyebrow and struggled for something else to say. While he was excited and pleased about spending the day with Caroline, he was quite disconcerted—to say the least—by how it had come about.

"Well then, what shall we do?"

Caroline too had gathered her wits by now and she looked at him with her pale, almond-shaped eyes. _Exotic,_ thought Christopher, _and so very beautiful, even though she's so tired…_

"Yes, well, there's a chapel service at 9:30…" She trailed off.

"No," Foyle replied, "I'd prefer someplace where we may talk. You said I'm not to leave the hospital?"

She nodded. He went on, "Well, we can't stay here. Perhaps we might have a look around the old place?"

After they had looked in at the makeshift chapel, the operating room, the nurses' room, and the smaller, more masculine quarters for the doctors, they stopped in a long-unused classroom filled with the morning sun. They stood at the tall windows and gazed out at the beginning of a glorious day.

Although their tour had not taken long, it had made Foyle a bit tired. "Shall we sit for a moment?" he asked.

She sat to one side of the deep ledge of the window and he sat in the opposite corner, their knees almost touching.

Nurse Devereaux could see the hints of fatigue in his noble face, a face she was learning to know so well. _I hope this isn't too wearing for him. Oh how I want to spend this time with him! But I must remember my duties as a nurse._

They sat in comfortable silence until the strains of a hymn reached them. Foyle looked up at Caroline and was once again struck by her peculiar, almost hypnotic eyes.

"Are you usually here on Sunday?"

Caroline studied the wooden floors intently.

"No, not usually. You see, Charles is away this weekend. If he weren't away, I would at this moment be seated in the places reserved for the family in the church on the estate." She paused, then continued, "Charles would be giving me disapproving glances at how I was dressed, or something I'd said to one of the ladies as we entered or—anything, really."

Foyle watched her, hating the anguish he could see in her face.

"My husband already would have discoursed over breakfast on my failings at the dinner party we had hosted the night before. Trivial things, like laughing too much or too loudly. His opinion that I didn't talk enough to Mr Spencer, or spent far too _much_ time with Mrs Jones. The food wasn't right, the flowers…"

She looked up at him and said vehemently, "I hate it. I hate it all."

"What made… was there a time when you were happy—with him?"

"Yes, I was happy enough before we were married. He seemed charming, and I imagined the life of a gentleman's wife would be fun and exciting." She paused and took a laboured breath. "After we were married, it all changed.

"He wants to bend me to his will, to break me. I know as a wife I must bow to my husband's wishes… but I expected more of a… partnership. Two people journeying through life as one—united in common causes and friendship." She gave Christopher a part-sad, part-sardonic little smile. "Romantic nonsense, yes?"

"No, not at all. I see marriage that way, indeed. My parents are—" he stopped, pain clouding his face, and softly corrected himself, "were…"

Caroline, wanting to divert his thoughts, quickly spoke. "Yes, my parents, also. They were never long at cross-purposes. My mother, of course, usually gave way to my father, but occasionally… well, a few things were important to her. The point is that they worked it out, always. It's not that way with Charles. Sometimes it seems the more I give in, the more he demands and criticises."

She went on quietly, "I used to try standing up to him, demanding my due. But he had such a strong, almost violent reaction that now I just try to do as he wishes."

She looked up and said, "This sounds so pathetic, so common… I didn't mean to tell you all this. You must think I'm a fool."

He regarded her wordlessly, but with such a gentle gaze that she knew whatever he eventually said would not be disapproving.

Foyle said after a long silence, "No, I don't think you're a fool. You are a lovely lady in a very bad situation, and I fear for your safety.

"And" —here again he hesitated for quite a long time— "because I've come to care for you, it saddens and concerns me." His eyes met hers, then he quickly looked away.

Caroline placed her left hand on Christopher's right, which was resting between them.

"Thank you, Christopher. I've come to care about you, too."

Her touch sent shivers through his body. This was not a medical touch; this was the affectionate touch of a wonderful, attractive woman.

_A __**married **__woman!_ He fiercely reminded himself.

"What about you? What of the life and loves of Christopher Foyle?"

Caroline looked at him earnestly. Foyle was always reluctant to talk about himself, but he realised that she needed to turn the conversation away from her problems.

"I was in love once. Or at least I thought I was." He glanced at her. "Now, I'm not so sure. I did ask her to marry me. Elizabeth. I was quite smitten; wanted desperately to marry her."

An odd look crossed his face—regret? bitterness? He continued, "Her father wouldn't allow it. I was just a policeman's son, and not worthy of his daughter. She married a barrister instead."

Caroline gave him a sympathetic smile. They both were silent after so many revelations. As the quiet comfortably lengthened, Foyle leant his head back against the corner of the window. Caroline watched as his eyes grew heavy and fell shut. Soon she heard the even breaths of sleep. _I've worn him out, poor dear._

* * *

><p>Christopher Foyle awoke with a snort. <em>Did I drop off in the middle of a sentence? Where is Caroline? <em>He glanced sheepishly around the classroom. Written on the large slate blackboard in her perfect penmanship was, "CF, don't go anywhere, I'll be back shortly. —CD".

In a few minutes Foyle heard footsteps from down the hall. Caroline very quietly entered the room, carrying a box. When she saw that he was awake she smiled and said, "Good morning! I hope your nap has refreshed you and given you an appetite. I think I put together a nice luncheon. The sun is on the south side of the building, and there's a nice little courtyard there with a table and chairs. Shall we?"

Earlier, after Christopher had dozed off, Caroline had sat quietly, just watching him sleep. His face was beautiful in repose. Since no one, especially not he, could see her looking at him, she did so unreservedly. She thought about what she had admitted to him this morning.

He was so easy to talk to; he listened so carefully. It was a way of listening that she had only noticed in older people. He listened, but you didn't feel self-conscious about what you were saying, even when he occasionally asked a question.

_Maybe I shouldn't have told him about Charles. What was the point? What can __**he **__do about your unhappy life? What do you __**want **__from Christopher?_ She sighed.

Christopher was in a deep sleep. It was almost midday. The cook, Mrs Whitney, seemed to favour her; maybe she could provide a picnic lunch.

So now she was back, carrying a variety of treats from Mrs Whitney's larder. Seeing Christopher's face light up when she entered made her giddy.

_**This **__is what I want from him, this feeling of happiness and contentment and_—she shied away even in her mind from this thought—love. It didn't matter that these feelings couldn't last; while she was with him, she was happy.

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The sun was uncommonly warm for February, especially in the stillness of the enclosed southern courtyard, but Caroline noticed Christopher shiver just as they were seated, and insisted despite his protests upon hastening back to bring a lap robe for him.

As he waited Foyle perused Cook's largess. All the hospital food seemed splendid to him in comparison to bully beef and turnip bread, but out of fondness for Nurse Devereaux, the kind woman had packed them a Thermos of hot tea, some actual ham, a thick slice of bread for each of them, plus boiled eggs and even a smidgen of marmalade.

He shook his head with a faintly embarrassed smile at Caroline as she fussed about him, tucking the worn Black Watch fleece just beneath his dressing gown-clad arm and loosely draping it over his bandaged shoulder.

"There, now!" she declared, content. "What have we for lunch?"

As they dined she asked him what sizes clothing he wore, as she'd been charged with ordering from the Army a new uniform and a suit of recovering soldier clothes.

"Must I wear that dreadful red tie?" he joked, and she flashed him a glance of mock reprimand.

"Now, here the Army goes to all the bother of showing the world you're a hero, and you complain about its sartorial choices!"

He laughed, but a bit humourlessly. "Hero…" His eyes filled as he thought of the young men under his command. He had learned two days earlier that Lighthall and Hill hadn't returned to the trench nor been seen since confronting the Huns.

"All I was, was lucky," he told her firmly.

She placed her hand gently on his and looked at him meaningfully.

"You were doing the job as best you knew how—trying to look after your men. And all of you are trying to defend all of us…"

"At times I wonder…" he began, then, catching a worried expression in her eyes, he left it, taking a sip of the warming tea and feeling the tiny comfort tea always seemed to bring, and this was a very good tea, thank heaven. _Or thank Mrs Whitney._

"Did the doctor have an idea of how much longer you'll be here?" Caroline asked him, making an effort to sound casual. His sombre eyes flickered over hers as he weighed the wisdom of admitting how little he would want to leave, especially now that hardly a minute passed without his thinking about her.

"I'm well enough next week to begin trying to use my arm—and there's another specialist coming round to help me exercise in certain ways. But Dr Allen warned me not to be overly optimistic about my strength in that shoulder. He said it might always ache—maybe even pain me sharply—when I lift with my left arm, change gear in a motorcar, that kind of thing. Good job I cast with my right!" He tried valiantly to look less glum.

Nurse Devereaux gave him a watery smile, experiencing a gamut of emotions. Admiration for his hanging onto hope and for the way she could tell he was trying to spare her from seeing any of his despair. Tenderness for his attempt to bring their thoughts back to lightness, even as he was describing how he would never be the same. Of course, in comparison to many of the mutilated young men she had treated, he had been fortunate. But those severely injured soldiers would not be going back; and going back was what she knew Sergeant Foyle would have to face.

Christopher had noticed the tears in her eyes and was touched at how genuinely concerned she seemed. It was quite the contrast, he thought suddenly, with the somewhat self-absorbed Elizabeth, with her tendency to ask him how he was and then launch into a soliloquy on how _she_ was.

He knew he had become important to this gentle, caring, beautiful woman. It had the paradoxical effect of making his inevitable return to the battlefield both more and less dreaded—he didn't want to leave her, but if he could carry her in his heart, there would be something to live for. Or there would be, if only she were _free_….

* * *

><p>Their meal in the sun did him a world of good, and the two were amazed to find themselves left alone, even though aware that the small courtyard was about as far from the wards as it was possible to get. The others probably took breaks in places more convenient to the patients. For a time they just enjoyed the quiet, Caroline occasionally identifying birdsongs and Christopher gazing at her as much as he dared.<p>

_If Charles had remained kind and charming to her,_ Foyle was thinking, _Caroline would be merely pleasant and polite to me or any other wounded soldier; at the outside, flirting humourously with me. But I think she feels this, too._ He could tell that she was not one to take her wedding vows lightly, but that some emotion was rising in her, much stronger than any she had ever felt for her husband, and that it was something she _needed_ to feel.

Suddenly Christopher realised that her wet eyes were fastened to his, and that her shaky hand was moving nervously toward her forehead in an attempt to hide her emerging tears from him. He furrowed his brow and leaned forward so quickly that he felt one of the aforementioned stabs to his arm and shoulder, and retracted with a wince.

"Caroline, Caroline, _please,_ my darling…"

With that she buried her face in her hands and burst into sobs, leaning far over her knees in a way that made him want to hold her as he had never wanted anything in his life before. Despite the physical agony of it, he rose and knelt before her, gently stroking her bowed head as she wept.

She made an effort to lift her tear-stained face to look into his.

"I don't want to cause you pain," she said, still gasping. "But I can't help but long to be closer to you. You are kinder and sweeter than any man has ever been to me, and… and… I want you in a way that I've never wanted anyone. I don't think I ever was in love before now, and it's so strong that I can't ignore it… even for our sakes."

Foyle could not look away from her eyes, and he could not help but feel that every word she had just said, he could have said to her. Though he had never heard the term "situational ethics," he was beginning to let them be employed in the pull he felt towards her. Here in this place, at this moment, in their circumstances, it actually felt more right to love her than it felt to force himself not to.

Caroline leaned towards him, her warm wet hands reaching to clasp his free one, and she looked up at him beseechingly. "Please say something," she begged.

Catching her wrist, he drew it closer to feel her racing pulse beneath his lips; he swallowed hard as he held back his own tears. The young woman turned her hand and tenderly stroked his cheek, a look of wonder on her face, but also an expression of torment.

Christopher's eyes also shone with pain and he shut them tight, but when he opened them her look of desperation combined with love for him clenched his heart. He touched her flushed face, trailing his fingers along her jaw, and as if his hand were a magnet, she bent with it until her face was nearer his.

He brushed her lips with his; then with a soft moan of anguish he covered her lips with his, feeling a relief and a rush akin to diving into cool water on a hot summer's day. The kiss was not the goodnight-at-the-doorstep sort… it was a kiss that gave over to all the passion each of them felt. And it was what they were meant to do, notwithstanding the laws they had previously agreed to live by.

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Foyle lost all track of time. The feel of Caroline's soft mouth moving under his and the touch of her tongue against his was so lovely, so right. _Right,_ the word echoed in his mind, _so right._

_But this wasn't right. This was another man's wife._

Christopher gently pushed her away, trying to slow his breathing.

"Caroline we must stop," he responded to her whimper of objection, "Someone might see us, and that won't do for your sake."

Caroline's disappointment was evident on her face, but after staring into his eyes and seeing the concern reflected in them, she nodded and turned slightly away from the man she loved. She let her hands slip from his as she stood and looked toward the long branch of weeping wych elm that swept in over the courtyard wall.

Sergeant Foyle glanced tentatively at Caroline, then spoke with an awkwardness he hadn't felt in her presence in many days. "I suppose I should be getting back to the ward…"

"So soon? Couldn't we…" she turned to him as she gathered her thoughts, "Couldn't we just keep sitting for a bit? I promise I won't ravish you." She smiled at him a little sadly, despite her teasing, and his heart bumped. _Oh, I really am in a bad situation. But I don't truly mind—odd._

They sat in silence for a while, sipping the last of their tea, each enjoying the sunlight and cherishing the company of the other. Then they quietly talked of inconsequential things; the other men on the ward, the nurses Caroline worked with, whether it would be an early spring. They talked about anything except the love that boiled up between them and what it meant for them and their future.

* * *

><p>Eventually the sun sank behind the corner of the building and the once-warm picnic spot grew cold.<p>

"We should go in." Foyle said.

"Yes, we should. But it's been so lovely," Caroline's eyes caught and held Christopher's as she said solemnly, "_All_ of it has been so lovely."

They slowly walked back to the ward in silence until Foyle put his hand on his nurse's arm, stopping her in an empty hallway.

"Caroline, I've had a wonderful day."

"Thank you, Christopher. So have I."

He waited in the hall while Caroline returned the picnic dishes to the dear Mrs Whitney, with their sincere thanks. They went on towards the ward.

Christopher sat down on the bed with a sigh. _Tired, and so much to think about._

As Caroline helped him out of his dressing gown, her hand brushed the back of his neck, sending a race of chills down his spine.

As she neatened his blanket he looked up at her with one eyebrow arched and said, "Lancelot and Guinevere—it was an un… an unfulfilled love, wasn't it?"

Caroline blushed and looked away from him. She paused, then met his eyes, her blush undimmed, but with an impish grin. "Only in the children's versions, Christopher. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Caroline," he said softly as he watched her leave.

Foyle reclined on his bed. Caroline had left with a quick wave from the doorway. The tiny gesture sent a tremor through his chest.

* * *

><p>After the evening meal, most of the more mobile patients gathered around the piano and sang—on Sundays liturgical music was an unspoken rule. Although Christopher didn't join in, the beauty and peace of it made a pensive backdrop for his thoughts.<p>

_What was he doing?_ He loved Caroline, that fact he did not doubt. And he strongly suspected—no, he knew—that she loved him, too. _But the kiss?_ Their mutual love should go no further. It shouldn't have gone this far.

Everything in Foyle's character and upbringing told him that loving her was wrong. Wrong for him. Wrong for her. Wrong for both of them.

But when he was with her… it seemed as far from wrong as possible. _It was wonderful._

_Damn the man! Sir Charles Devereaux!_ Didn't he know what a fine treasure he was squandering?

Foyle had never met Devereaux, but he felt he knew the type. Entitled, arrogant and mean. Someone who would pursue a prize and then when their hard work paid off and they'd won it, wouldn't value it. The prize could never be as good as the pursuit.

_Yes, I imagine Charles Devereaux is still enjoying the pursuit._

_Poor Caroline!_

Christopher knew their love could go no further, but his thoughts wandered to Caroline… to how it would feel if nothing held them back, and their kisses could go on and on, until the two of them were intertwined. A thrill of excitement stirred in him, but also a thrill of apprehension.

Despite his 23 years he had never been intimate with a woman. He was waiting to be married or at least engaged. He had thought that Elizabeth would have been willing once they were engaged, but that hadn't happened.

Other men, even friends of his, took the opportunity with women who were so inclined, but Foyle had always held back. If he had been asked he would have found it difficult to explain his reluctance. He had wants and desires as strong as any young man's, but it had always seemed a thing too momentous to share with just anyone. He wanted to share this with a woman who was as special to him as he was to her.

The pretty, fair-haired woman who had sat in Foyle's lap at the tavern in Loos had been sweet and inviting as she boldly smoothed her delicate little hands inside his tunic and toyed with his hair, and her attentions had warmed and even flattered him, but there was something a bit mercenary, or dutiful on her part, about it all. After buying her a few glasses of wine and struggling in his awkward bit of French to converse with her, he'd called it a night.

The lads didn't have to know that his walk upstairs with Estée had ended at her chamber door.

Christopher sighed raggedly as he pulled up his coverlet with one hand, covering his aching shoulder.

_What are we going to do?_

* * *

><p>Caroline Devereaux was dreading her arrival home, as she knew Charles probably would have returned by this time. Johnson, her driver, was as prompt as ever, and though she often would chat with him on the way to and from Whitefriars, she was quiet this early evening. Good as he was at what he did, he sensed her unease and did not try to engage her in any small talk.<p>

The great front hall with its classical statuary seemed more draughty and sterile than ever. She thought of how charmed she had been, the first time she had seen this elegant yellow manse with its tremendous columns and painting-filled rooms. Now it seemed the opposite of comfort. She would far rather sit in a cosy old schoolroom in a worn window seat, farthest from lonely with her Christopher. That was how she was thinking of him now: _Her Christopher._ And yet she had no right to consider him hers. Not when she couldn't truly be his.

The housekeeper, Mrs Ramsay, emerged from a side door after turning out the lights of the music room. She looked at Mrs Devereaux in surprise, for the younger woman stood there, still in her VAD uniform and cap, looking quite desolate.

"My Lady? May I get you something?"

Caroline shook herself of the trance she was in and smiled feebly at the kind woman. Then she shook her head slightly as she said, "No. No, thank you, Mrs Ramsay. Has Sir Charles returned yet?"

Her pale blue eyes caught the flicker of distaste in the housekeeper's usually friendly brown ones. Caroline wasn't the only person in the household made uncomfortable by the formidable Charles.

"No, Lady Devereaux, he isn't home. He called earlier to say that he once again has been detained in London."

"Oh, very well, Mrs Ramsay," Caroline replied, relief washing over her. "I'll retire for the night, then. Thank you, and goodnight."

Caroline climbed the stairs, limp with relief that Charles wouldn't be there greeting her with harsh words. But there was something... something in the way Mrs Ramsay had said "once again detained": a distinct note of disapproval. Almost as if the housekeeper knew why Charles hadn't returned home.

_Was he at it again? Another woman. No, **girl**—each successive one seemed to be younger than the last._

Caroline's feelings were a mixture. A sense of release, knowing that Charles was not home. Anger and shame, that he was again flaunting their marriage vows. Embarrassment—everyone knew, it seemed. The servants, of course, but also her and Charles' so-called friends. She'd been ignoring the whispers and sly innuendos since shortly after their return from the wedding trip.

And hope. This gave her new incentive—not that she needed much—to further her relationship with Christopher, without guilt.

_Charles, I hope you enjoy whoever-she-is, because now I'm free. I'll not let any supposed duty to you stop me acting on my love for Christopher._

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Christopher Foyle was exhausted and sore. It had been an interesting, difficult and painful morning. He slumped on his bed. _The young lady said she'd be coming back tomorrow. Could one be shot for desertion for deserting a hospital?_

It had begun at 9:00 this morning. Foyle had been casually looking around for Caroline—she was usually at work by then. A pert young blonde had bounced up to the foot of his bed and announced, "Sergeant Foyle, I'm Mary Reagan! I'm your Reconstruction Aid."

Foyle looked as bewildered as he felt. He quickly recovered and said, "Ahh, so you're…you're the one Dr Allen said was to come by and help with my arm?"

"Oh yes, that's me!" She seemed sprinkle her speech with exclamation marks. "Let's get to work!"

The next forty-five minutes seemed interminable. His poor tender arm and shoulder were stretched and pulled and prodded without mercy, and all with a cheery "Good work!"

Foyle had heard much lovely poetry in his life, but his favourite line as of this morning was, "Just grand! That will be all for today." But the poetry appreciation was short-lived as the chirpy Miss Reagan continued, "I'll see you tomorrow at the same time!"

And so he sat on his bed, arm throbbing, head reeling. He looked feebly around, wondering what was keeping Caroline, and caught sight of Johnny, the youngster who handed around the post, heading his way.

A letter from his mum. He carefully opened it.

_1 March 1916_

_Dearest Christopher_

_I'm sorry son to take such a long time to write but it's still hard._

_I was so distressed to learn you were hurt. But thank God that it was not more serious than it was. The nurse you mentioned sounds so kind and sweet to all of you_

_All I really do is sit and try to read but look out the window and I don't feel very strong. Ivy is so good to me, patient and kind but I know it must be wearing to have me. I want so much to see you but I know travel is difficult._

_I have a favour to ask of you, Christopher. It might work out well for you if hospital releases you, as you let the flat when you went to France. Could you go stay in the house for a short while and go through Papa's papers for me? There are things I need to sign to give you what he left for you and me and I don't recall where he kept them. I don't know if he ever told you where he kept them, but I imagine it was somewhere in his desk or in the cabinet in the closet of his study._

_If you can do this and post them to me I can put that worry aside for both of us. It also will be better for the cottage if you are there instead of just Mrs Neagle stopping by. But if you would do this for me, just visit her for the key and let her know she needn't. I'm sure her Polly would gladly come by to clean for you, and maybe even cook, if you like._

_You are a fine man and I am very proud of you son. Your father would be proud too. Please be well and tell me soon what you decide._

_Your loving_

_Mother_

Christopher sighed as he finished reading. He agreed that it would work out well for him to recover in the house, and wondered if his father had actually ultimately left it to him. It was a pleasant place, but very small and almost on the outskirts of Hastings, not as close to the city centre as he needed it to be for his work. _Especially now,_ he thought_. If it will be as difficult to drive as Dr Allen claims, I'd best live where I can walk to the station. Who knows what kind of police work I'll find when I return. A constable who can't drive—I'll be walking a beat 'til I retire! Or riding in the back of the Black Maria like one of the Keystone Kops._ His mouth skewed in a darkly humorous smile.

"Good news from your mother?"

He looked up to see Caroline standing beside him, two steaming cups of tea in her hands. He smiled broadly up at her until she sat beside the bed just where the morning sunlight streamed in from the upper windows of the ward, and he could see her face more clearly.

"Caroline, what's the matter?" His expression was now one of concern.

She shook her head, not able to meet his eyes. "It's nothing."

But he had already moved to sit on the right edge of his bed, peering more closely at her. Her eyes were red and bloodshot; her hair, while not entirely in disarray, wasn't done up in her usual neat fashion, and she had dark smudges under both eyes.

He furrowed his brow and his voice was stern. "Caroline, tell me."

"I will tell you," she said sadly. "But have your tea first," she held it out to him.

Foyle placed the cup on the bedside table and glanced about. Secure in the knowledge that no one would notice them at the moment, he took the other cup from her hands and touched her cheek softly. He whispered this time. "What's wrong?"

The young nurse shook her head. "I finally realised what a simpleton I've been. I've had suspicions for a long time, but I finally see that everyone knows, not just me. I feel such a fool!"

"Caroline, dear, what do you mean?"

She took a deep breath, glanced at his troubled face. She spoke in a low voice.

"Last night, when Mrs Ramsay told me that Charles wouldn't be home—that he was detained in London—I saw the look in her face and I knew she knew."

"Knew what?" Christopher gently coaxed.

"That she knew that Charles was straying, that he had been cheating on me with many different women for a long time. And as I went up to my room I was struck by the realisation that they all knew. The servants, our set, my friends, even my family; they _all _knew."

A dark silence fell between them. Caroline studied the tile floor as Christopher watched her face.

She continued speaking in a voice that had lost all its colour.

"Oh, _I've_ known for a long time. Since we were first married—after the wedding trip. I noticed things… Small things, yes, but so many. One day I was in town doing a little shopping and I saw him in a café with a girl. The way they behaved, I knew all the small things had meant something. I waited and watched as they went to a hotel down the block." She looked up and took another deep breath.

"But last night was the first I realised that my shame was common knowledge. I went through the motions of getting ready to retire, but when I lay down I couldn't sleep. I relived each instance where I should have seen the truth but didn't. The significant look, the quick comment or just an odd feeling—it was clear to me that they all knew." Her voice quavered. "I don't know if I can stand it."

"Caroline, I'm so sorry." Foyle gently put his hand over hers. _Oh, if only I could hold her! She needs me._

He was resolved. "My dear, can you meet me in 'our' classroom? You go ahead, and I'll follow in a moment."

Caroline looked at him. Her eyes had been drowning and now saw a glimmer of rescue. "Yes… yes, I'd like that. Just for a bit, and then I'll have to begin my work."

He watched her walk away, again. But this time it wouldn't be for an entire night—he was going to be with her in minutes. This time he was going to comfort her without reservations. He was finished with all the self-recrimination of the last week. The right thing, the moral thing was to be with the woman he loved when she needed him.

* * *

><p>"Caroline."<p>

She snuffled a bit into her handkerchief and looked around to see Christopher standing in the threshold of the schoolroom. He was still rubbing his left arm a bit gingerly as he walked towards her, and she touched it very gently and soothingly as he took her other hand.

They looked at each other longingly, but neither made any further move. Caroline cast down her eyes.

"Christopher, I… I didn't want you to know, honestly." She looked up again and he could see the pure misery in her soft eyes. "I didn't want you to think that I was trying to play upon your sympathies, to manipulate you somehow into…" She trailed off.

He nodded as he squeezed her hand and his lips twisted in a sardonic half-smile. "Funny thing. That _was_ a letter from my mother, y'know. She was asking me to look after our place in Hastings while I recover. And to look for some personal papers of my dad's. I was dreading it and wondering if you'd go with me and help me. Then I wondered if you'd think I was just trying to get you alone."

His eyes danced as they fixed upon hers, but then his look of amusement was slowly transformed into a look of love and desire.

"…But I'd be lying if I claimed that I _don't _want to get you alone."

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Foyle felt something akin to fear as he placed the key in the front door lock. How long since he'd crossed this threshold? He hadn't lived in his father's house for almost four years, but he'd been here just before he left for France.

Mum had made all his favourites for a farewell dinner—so much food—kedgeree, roast beef, creamed spinach, even a trifle. She'd worked so hard, but she sobbed all the way through dinner. Christopher valiantly tried to eat but it was difficult with the lump stuck in his throat. It was the last time he saw his father. If he had known, it certainly would have been much worse.

Caroline cleared her throat, breaking Foyle out of his reverie. He glanced back at her and saw the sympathy on her face. He took a breath, turned the lock and opened the door to usher this special woman inside.

He looked around nervously, but led Caroline to the settee in the parlour and then set to work starting a fire. The house had a chill but was clean and had been aired recently; Mrs Neagle was taking good care.

He arose from the fireplace and then stood glancing around and fidgeting. Caroline empathised but also was amused. The young soldier who had captured her heart was usually calm and composed. She knew it wasn't her presence that was causing him to worry his lower lip that way—at least, not for the most part.

"Why don't you show me around?"

"Ahhh, yes. Not much to show."

Foyle took Caroline through the small dining room into the kitchen, ignoring the door that led off from the parlour. The kitchen was bright and cheery with its crisp red-and-white curtains and tablecloth.

"Shall I put the kettle on?" Caroline asked.

"Yes. That is, I _assume_ there is tea, and sugar. But milk... ?" As she lit the burner he quickly looked and found both tea and sugar, but no milk. "I guess we'll have to make do until I can get to the shop."

"Still, a cup of tea will be nice."

They walked out into the garden back of the house. It was small but had been well-tended and laid out in with an imaginative eye for design.

"My father's pride and joy," Christopher said, taking in the garden with a sweep of his right arm.

"It looks lovely. I imagine he worked very hard out here. And everything is just now starting to bloom and leaf out... Oh, it's just so sad. I'm sorry, Christopher."

"Yesss..." More agitated mouth-quirking. "Shall we see if the kettle has boiled?"

They went back inside the house, where Caroline prepared a tray so they could take their tea in the parlour.

"No milk, no biscuits—I wonder what else?" he grumbled. "I'll have to go collect some things straight away. Help me make a list?"

Over the rest of their tea they made a list of necessities, talking as they did so about rationing caused by the war and what should be available and what definitely would not be.

"Will you stay here after you're released from hospital? Or will it be too difficult?" Caroline asked, laying her hand atop his.

Christopher glanced down at their hands and back up to Caroline's face. "I imagine I shall stay here; it will be all right. It's just getting used to the... the emptiness."

He turned his hand up and intertwined his fingers with hers. "I'm glad you're here. Thank you."

She smiled and gave Christopher a kiss on the cheek.

"Now, you should show me the rest of your house. I want to see _your _room. The realm of the young Christopher Foyle," she added dramatically.

Foyle followed her up the stairs, trying unsuccessfully to avoid watching the slight sway of her hips as she ascended. His mind drifting elsewhere, he was startled when Caroline stopped at the top of the stairs. She gave him a questioning look.

"My parents' room to the left, bathroom straight ahead, and to the right, the realm."

Caroline stepped to the left and briefly looked from the doorway into Christopher's parents' neat, traditionally appointed room. Then she went on down the hallway, slowing as she joined Christopher in his boyhood bedroom.

He was standing just inside the doorway of a small sunlit room. The room was dominated by a large wooden bedstead and by bookcases up to the windowsills along all sides. An embroidered bed cover was tucked neatly over the mattress. A small wardrobe stood against the only part of a wall not covered with books.

Caroline looked up at Foyle, who looked preoccupied, slightly lost. She placed her hand on his forearm, and he smiled gently at her.

"It seems so different. So long ago. I've changed so much."

"Has it been so much, Christopher? Aren't you just the same man with different experiences?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps."

Caroline, attempting to lighten his mood, remarked, "That is quite a large bed for a young boy's room. Did you have a tendency to fall out?"

Foyle twisted his lips up into a self-mocking little smile and replied, looking at the bed but not at her, "I'll have you know that this fine bed is the total of my inheritance from my grandparents—last male heir and such. I know it's much too big for the size of the room, but I loved it. Many a battle has been fought over that great expanse of counterpane."

Caroline began inspecting the books in the cases. It was an eclectic variety. Science, history, economics, politics, and philosophy, together with a good selection of literature. Shakespeare, Dickens, Eliot, Shelley, Conrad, Stevenson, Verne and Kipling.

She looked at him with a cheeky grin. "_The Legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table._ The children's version, I presume."

He smiled shyly and moved towards her, but she sidestepped him and continued to examine the bookshelves. Her eyes were drawn to some brightly covered books tucked in the corner.

"Wait—what's this? _Boys of England, UnionJack, Ha' Penny Marvel_—you read penny dreadfuls!" Suddenly she turned to him. "Jack Harkaway or Sexton Blake?"

Foyle's only response was wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

She chuckled. "Oh yes, I read them too. Of course I had to sneak them from my brothers, as it was 'not proper reading material for a nice young lady.' I don't believe Mum entirely approved of Tom and Richard reading penny dreadfuls, but her precious daughter must be protected by all means from such horrors!

"Now Sergeant Foyle, answer my question: Jack Harkaway or Sexton Blake?"

Foyle appeared taken aback by the intensity of the question. He gazed at Caroline, then glanced at the floor before looking up with his answer.

"Well... Sexton Blake..." He noted a baleful glance sent his way, "was good fun, but I much preferred Jack Harkaway."

Caroline nodded and looked pleased.

"Oh yes, Jack Harkaway was always my favourite—his adventures were the best."

He grinned, but their eyes met and held for long seconds.

"The schoolboy's code of honour," Christopher mused aloud. "It may sound naive, Caroline, but I never meant to break it." His smile had dimmed and become rueful; pain overflowed his eyes.

They both knew what each of them had dreamed of doing if they could be together alone like this, and they both knew it could never be with unalloyed happiness.

She stepped towards him, held his hands in hers. "I know it, my darling. And I never meant to break the vow I made on my wedding day, even knowing I didn't truly love the man I was marrying." She looked deep into his eyes as she moved closer, and his good arm curved around her as naturally as the tendrils of a vine.

Caroline whispered, "But if one is wed to someone dishonourable? And if she is in love for the first time—passionately in love—with a man who _is_ honourable? What then, Christopher?"

He held her close, lovingly rubbing her cheek with his, trying to think straight about too many things at once, finding himself able to concentrate only on the way her slender body felt pressed tight along his, and on the clean light scent of her hair and skin, which reminded him of fresh linens.

Caroline stroked his hair, then swirled two fingers over the texture of the close-cropped hair at his nape as she gently kissed his ear. He could not decide which of the two tiny gestures was the more stimulating.

Then she drew back and brought her soft lips up to his, and he surrendered to kissing her as he had longed to for days... as he had done in his dreams. They both felt the effect the kiss had on him, but he was unable to care any longer about whether it was right for him to want her, to need her as much as she needed him.

He took a deep breath as he reluctantly pulled back and looked into her sweet eyes again.

"Caroline, I've never... that is, I'm not... experienced." He bowed his head in embarrassment, wondering if she would think him less manly for his innocence.

Tears came to her eyes as she realised she would be his first lover, and she was suffused with tenderness for him.

"It won't matter at all, Christopher. You'll just somehow know what to do, but if you are unsure, just tell me. I'll be with you."

And as he bent to kiss her with all his heart and soul, he knew it would always be true.

* * *

><p>TBC…<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

Title: The Long Shadow

Authors: dancesabove and jewell

Rating: For this chapter, M—This chapter, though romantic and devoid of profanity, is more sexually explicit than the others.

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in _Foyle's War_ belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and we in no way profit from the story we've written.

Feedback: Welcome

* * *

><p>Chapter 10<p>

Even when Christopher had gently kissed Caroline's hands or merely brushed past her as they stood beside his hospital bed, she had been in a whirl of sensation, so she often had marvelled that, if they could truly be alone, he might make her feel something even stronger.

Now the power of these sensations amazed her; she felt her body somehow weaken and become strong at the same time. It was a confusing and flustering feeling, but ultimately, as he slowly engulfed her mouth and moved his head to one side to increase the lovely warm pressure, she felt a focus of the mixed-together feelings, and the sharpness of the focus was pleasure. She took a deep breath as he released her for a few seconds, and she hugged him, her cheek on his shoulder. He didn't flinch—it was no longer painful for him when she embraced him carefully.

His mouth gently trailed from her neck to her shoulders to the creamy skin just above her breasts and she tilted back her head, weaving her fingers through his dark hair. His look of awe as he unbuttoned her shirtfront made tears come to her eyes. Christopher slid a warm palm tenderly beneath the hem of her chemise and felt the softness of one perfect breast, making her tremble. His fingering of her nipple made her moan quietly, but when he bent to take the other into his mouth her response to the sensation was very nearly a release unto itself.

Silently, every emotion expressed in his face, he guided Caroline to his bed as she had so often guided him to the narrow one he occupied in hospital. His eyes never left hers as he lowered her onto it and leant slowly over her, massaging her lips with his and exploring her mouth with his eager tongue. He struggled to make himself slow down.

She helped him off with the teal flannel coat and the bright tie he had dreaded wearing, undoing his shirt with distracted difficulty as he covered her ears and neck with kisses. Both tried not to be undignified in their haste to remove clothing, but soon found themselves laughing at how quickly and awkwardly they assisted each other in tugging away trousers, skirt, and the rest. Their laughter was as sweet as their intensity, he thought.

_This feels so right…_

At last they lay naked, excepting his shoulder bandage, in each other's arms. Caroline's loving caresses and sweet whispers soothed him and made him wild for her all at once. She reached down to stroke his hardness and he clenched his eyes shut, drawing his breath sharply through his teeth. Then she guided him so that the head of his arousal could touch the welcoming heat and moisture between her legs.

"Slowly if you can, my Christopher," she told him, "so that you may _feel _it."

Christopher's eyes rolled back in his head as he followed her directive and slipped into her as if gradually entering a crystalline pool of water. From all he had heard and imagined this was a pleasurable thing, but he was not prepared for how transporting it truly was. They gasped together as he completely claimed her and filled her. To have his whole length snugly grasped by her velvety depth was… the word that came to his mind was _paradise._ He groaned raggedly as he instinctively pulled outward and then moved back into the warm shelter of her passage.

_Dear God in Heaven…_

Caroline couldn't form the words, but she was equally surprised. She may have done this before in a sense, but never had it brought her anything like this height of feeling. To this euphoric sensation, she was as virginal as he. She began to weep softly at the intensity of it.

Alarmed, Christopher brushed her wet cheek with one thumb. "Caroline, oh, love… am I hurting you?"

She gave him a fleeting smile and breathed, "Quite… quite the opposite…" then undulated sensuously beneath him, making him growl again, much to her own stimulation.

He lowered his head and felt with his lips the satiny skin of her graceful throat. It was all beyond comparing with anything he had ever felt in a fantasy; her tender kisses, the feel of her hips moving upward to meet his thrusts, the warm wonder of her body writhing under his, and the beautiful sounds of ecstasy she made... all this created the most rapturous experience he'd ever had. _If I do die on the battlefield,_ he thought to himself, _at least I shall have known this._

Caroline opened her eyes for a moment, trying to avoid being so carried away that her Christopher might not feel emotionally connected with her. "My darling," she whispered as she stroked his hair, adoring the captivated look in his eyes, "it's— it's... I can't even describe how wonderful you're making me feel." He slowly closed and opened his eyes, feeling his heart seem to shift sideward in his chest even through its thundering. Then he moved more deeply within her and she emitted another spine-tingling cry of pleasure. Christopher took her lips again, driven mad with passion for her, and she tried in her throes not to clutch his left arm or shoulder. He was almost beyond feeling any pain if she had done, so strong was the thrumming, building pleasure in other parts of his body.

The young man's mind wanted to slow down, to keep this beautiful woman moaning his name and embracing him tightly as he brought her to such rapture, feeling crazed with the pleasure of all of it himself… but he had lost control of his physical response at this point and there could be no thinking himself away from the precipice.

Not a man to carry French letters with him routinely, his plan to protect them from pregnancy had been to pull out of her at the crucial moment… but it was not to be. With a combination of alarm and profound relief he came to his release deep within her pulsing sheath, as both of them cried out loudly with the force of it.

* * *

><p>Presently Caroline opened her eyes dazedly to Christopher's, and then widened them comically as she drew an overwhelmed sigh, her hand palm up across her forehead in sated exhaustion. He had worried for an instant; felt vulnerable; but her expression, a mixture of stunned and contented, told him at once that he should not think he had been in any way lacking.<p>

Showing a dimple and mischievously darting her glance sideways, she sighed once again. "Well that was acceptable, I suppose. But I do think you'll need to try again quite soon and see if you can do better."

He grinned at her with modest pride, but his cheeks coloured. Her heart jumped; all she could do was hug him.

* * *

><p>TBC…<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

Title: The Long Shadow

Authors: dancesabove and jewell

Rating: T+

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in _Foyle's War_ belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and we in no way profit from the story we've written.

A/N: Please don't read this story unless you've seen "The Hide," the final episode of _Foyle's War_.

Feedback: Always very welcome. Let us know!

* * *

><p>Chapter 11<p>

Late afternoon sun shone in Christopher's eyes and brought him reluctantly awake. He shifted just slightly, causing Caroline to murmur in her sleep as she nestled against his shoulder and chest. He studied the faintly blue-veined eyelids he had brushed lightly, reverently with his lips; the feathery lashes resting on her cheekbones. For the first time he noticed a light pattern of tiny freckles near and across her nose. Though she'd tugged up the bed sheet and counterpane for warmth, a graceful slope of bare shoulder was visible to him. Drawing a quick breath, he gently covered her and stroked her arm with one finger. He was seized again with the desire to touch and kiss every part of her.

Soon he must wake Caroline and send her away. The paradise of today would be gone. But she must get back to Brighton, back to her… home. She couldn't stay here with him unnoticed. Perhaps if she had been someone else, but a Lady with a houseful of servants… she couldn't stay here with him.

Servants, like anyone else, talked. As a policeman he knew them to be excellent sources of information. Even though he knew dear Caroline would have servants that were loyal to her and would not betray her, there were always others with indifferent loyalty, and there might be one allied with Charles who would notice if something were amiss. No, he needed to get Caroline on the train so she could return to Whitefriars as if she were coming from the hospital ward as usual.

Her husband was away this weekend; perhaps if her return appeared routine, she might come back here to him for at least part of the day tomorrow. _Oh, if only..._

Their love-making that morning and afternoon had been wonderful—better than wonderful—but words failed him. He was glad that he had held off his first experience in order to be with a woman he loved. To share something so thrilling with his love was incredible.

* * *

><p>Earlier, after their first time together, they had both risen energised and hungry. Armed with the list they had put together, Christopher had hurried out to the shops. It was a busy shopping Saturday in this little outlying neighbourhood of Hastings. He stopped in briefly to the butcher's, with old Mr Derrick greeting him like a lost son. He chatted as much as custom dictated, but as little as possible, mindful of beauty awaiting.<p>

Luckily he didn't recognise the young girl behind the counter at the bakery, and therefore didn't have to chat. She seemed unable to carry on a conversation anyway, blushing shyly and stammering the few words necessary to communicate with him. Not realising that he was the cause of this blushing and stammering, he just assumed that she was the exceptionally shy daughter.

At the greengrocer's, luck was once again against Foyle. Not only did he have to submit to Mrs Riddel's inspection, tut-tutting and gentle pats, but he also ran into a mate from school, George Hawkins.

George was just coming into the shop behind another customer, who mercifully had freed Christopher from the inquisitive clutches of Mrs Riddel. He was stealthily escaping when George appeared at the door.

"Christopher!" George boomed, "How good to see you! Wounded, eh? Do hope you're all right now."

_Blast the Army for making me wear this bloody recovering soldier uniform! No privacy, at all!_

The two stood on the step just outside the shop. "George, very glad to see you, how are you?"

"Very well, Christopher, very well indeed. I've taken a wife, you know."

"No, I didn't know. I'm happy for you. Who is she?"

"I don't believe you would have known her; Victoria Burns, from Brighton."

"Ah well, those Brighton girls have always been exceptional." He suppressed the broad smile he was tempted to display.

"Are you staying at the house? I'll fetch Victoria and we'll stop by this afternoon to—"

"Erm, no…no, this afternoon wouldn't do, I'm afraid. I uh, I'm expected back at hospital…"

"Oh," George gave his old school chum an uncertain look, but recovered quickly with a smile and said, "Of course. Some other time."

"Yes… when I get my official release I'll be staying here until they send me back—back to France."

"I wish I was going over there with you."

Foyle replied with a tight smile, "Good to see you, George. I'll be in touch."

The young soldier watched as his friend limped into the shop. George had broken his leg in a fall from a horse when he was ten, and had never walked without a limp since. _You're better off out of it, my friend, _Christopher thought as he left the shop and turned for home and Caroline.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile Caroline had freshened up and decided to take Christopher up on his parting words to "make yourself at home."<p>

After putting the kettle on she went back into the parlour. She tended the fire, then took a long look around the room. A few framed photographs on the mantel caught her eye.

A young constable in an old-fashioned uniform and a pretty young lady with dark, curling hair; Christopher's parents. The next photograph was the same couple a few years older, with a serious- faced little boy leaning against his mother's knee. _Ah, how sweet, little Christopher._

Caroline couldn't identify the people in the next photo. But the final photograph was of a fresh-faced constable standing proudly upright. His face was somehow more open, happy and without the haunted shade that was now there.

_Perhaps I was wrong, Christopher. Perhaps you **aren't** the same man who once lived in this house. I spoke rashly, my darling. Some experiences aren't just what happen to you; some experiences, like combat, may change your very core._

The kettle whistled, breaking her train of thought. After pouring up the water she returned to the parlour. Once more she noticed the door leading from the parlour that Christopher had bypassed during this morning's tour. Pushing it open slowly, Caroline peered in. _Christopher's father's study—no wonder he had passed it by. Well, that was a ghost he would have to confront, and she would be there to help him through it all._

So deep in thought was Caroline that she didn't hear Christopher arrive through the kitchen door and set down his carton of groceries. As she quietly shut the study door, she found that he was standing at the other side of the parlour, watching her. His expression flashed from intense happiness just to be seeing her, to sadness at the prospect of looking for his father's documents.

"I do have to face that before the day is out…"

Again she said softly, "I'll be with you." The look in his eyes as he thought about what had followed those words earlier made her sit suddenly, her knees too weak to support her.

* * *

><p>The lovers dined upon chicken and carrots and even some fresh bread, though Christopher philosophically lamented that most of the food had been very dear given some of the shortages. After washing up they turned their attention to James Foyle's study.<p>

As it turned out, it was a simple matter of opening the closet cabinet that his mother had mentioned; in the front of the top drawer of it was a folder marked "Will." They searched a few additional drawers of the cabinet as well as Mr Foyle's desk, but none of the other papers seemed to pertain to the house or property.

Caroline sat close beside Christopher as he read the short will and testament. "He does leave the house to me, for Mum to live in, and the savings to her. I thought that was probably how it would be." He sighed, and she stroked his arm soothingly. "But I'll consult Monday with Mr Fisher in town. Dad sometimes would see him about these matters… he probably has the deeds."

Foyle looked at the beautiful face of the woman beside him, at her expression of caring concern. He had already tried to stop himself wondering if somehow this house could ever be a place they both lived… and if it could only be so, whether it would be enough for a woman who had lived in an estate as grand as Whitefriars.

_But what good is it dreaming of her divorcing Charles and marrying you? Not only could you never give her that kind of wealth and status, but you can't even give her the promise that you'll live through this war._ He failed to hide from her his look of despair.

"Christopher… oh, my love." Then Caroline had touched his face gently, wishing desperately that she could erase the suffering in his eyes. She kissed his ear and then his cheek; then in a tentative way, his lips. His answering kiss was sweet and light at first, but then their passion began again to sweep him away from his misery, he had stood, grasped her hand, and led her up the stairs.

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

Well, gentle readers, this is getting more difficult to write, for obvious reasons, but…

The Long Shadow

Authors: dancesabove and jewell

* * *

><p>Chapter 12<p>

Sir Charles Devereaux knocked on his wife's bedroom door.

Caroline was not listening; her memory was replaying the way Christopher would kiss his way back up her body and take her lips, capturing her quickened breaths from the ecstasy he had just given her. They were in a world apart there in his bed. Of course they could walk back and forth in his tiny garden, or sit and read to each other in the sunlight of the parlour, or dine on something they'd prepared together. But they were not a couple who could tell anyone else how in love they were with each other, or walk arm in arm in the village, nor in town. They had talked a little about travelling to Cornwall or even heading further north.

"Maybe I could stop and see for myself whether Mum is all right," he'd mused. But they both cast their eyes down after he said it, knowing that he couldn't introduce her to his mother, and that time away would have to be elaborately planned so that Lady Devereaux's absence for more than a day or two could be explained...

"Caroline!" Charles rapped sharply on her dressing room door, shaking her out of her deep reverie. "What the blazes are you doing? We'll be late!"

The young woman started and leapt to her feet, patting her hair neatly into place, fluffing the tulle-and-lace pigeon breast of her pale green silk gown; smoothing its full skirt over her hips. The Devereaux family diamonds sparkled at her neckline and the lobes of her ears. She looked beautiful, but gone was the glow she could see in the looking glass whenever she was near the man she loved.

* * *

><p>The party was a see-and-be-seen affair at Lord Winningham's, complete with ice swans and aspic and dancing and bridge. Caroline thanked heaven they weren't staying the weekend as a great many of the guests were; Charles had meetings next afternoon in London, so his wife told him she would probably volunteer at the hospital this Saturday, too.<p>

"Lady Devereaux!" boomed Lord Winningham once Charles and she had drinks in hand and had greeted their hosts. "You look lovelier than ever. How can that be, when you are working so hard at the field hospital?"

Caroline looked at him with surprise. She had not known he was aware of her work with the Voluntary Aid; she was sometimes uncertain that even Charles internalised her volunteer work.

She could not help but smile then, and tried to calm the blush that came with a mental image of some of her "work" of late—the true reason for her radiance. It made her slightly uncomfortable to see how intently Winningham's sharp eyes were regarding her, and she wanted to change the subject, but in not-too-obvious a way.

"I am glad for the chance to help the unfortunate soldiers. But it is rather nice to be here; it's important for us to rest as much as we can, the better to care for them. Ah, Madeleine! What an exquisite necklace!"

But Thomas Winningham pursued his line of inquiry. "Dorrie said she could have sworn she saw you in Hastings last week."

Caroline cursed her easy blushes again. She pressed a hand to her temple. "Do forgive my flushed face; I've been feeling peculiar since noontime. Would you mind very much if I sat down for just a moment?"

The Winninghams exchanged glances and summoned the first footman to fetch a chair for Lady Devereaux, whose husband was already simmering with annoyance at his wife's embarrassing behaviour. Beneath a seemingly calm exterior Caroline's mind raced. Had young Lady Delores seen her alone in town, or had she seen her outdoors with Christopher? And which _day_ last week? She had spent Sunday, a few hours on Tuesday, and Friday with him. Wasn't it Friday that she went into a Boots just before her train home? It wouldn't be so very odd for her to be visiting Hastings, as her favourite milliner was there.

When seated and sipping a glass of water, Caroline employed her fan for a moment and then smiled sunnily at her small audience. "Again, I beg your pardon. Perhaps I am not as rested as I assumed."

Observing from their eyes that they expected an answer to Lord Thomas' comment, she added lightly, "I was in Hastings to see Miss Soanes for a new hat. Did Dorrie call to me? May have been a bit preoccupied…"

Mercifully the answer was no, as Lady Delores had seen Caroline from a taxi, and downtown, not in St Leonards. The men were still peering at her oddly, but Lady Winningham seemed unperturbed, and as soon as Caroline could excuse herself for a moment she asked Larcher for a brandy. She was in need of a bit of liquid courage and it helped her appear vivacious—or so she was thinking as she and Charles were driven home.

Drink made him more surly than lively as a rule, and he was in a fine state tonight.

"You seemed to recover precipitously from your little spell," he observed in an ominously challenging tone. "Well enough to flirt with nearly every man there." It was the sort of comment that some husbands or suitors might have made teasingly or proudly. Clearly Charles was neither joking nor proud.

"Don't be a fool." Her lips twitched at the irony of it. Charles was irritable because he suspected her of flirting with other men, which she wouldn't dream of doing—because her heart and body belonged to another.

Caroline was rattled when Charles seemed to read her thoughts and said, "_I'll_ show you to whom you belong." She knew this meant she could expect him to join her in her bed that night.

* * *

><p>She had known this would have to happen in time, and yet she panicked. <em>No—I can't, I can't be unfaithful to Christopher!<em> She struggled to look levelly at her husband. How could she refuse him? He would suspect something was amiss if she did.

Caroline's mind didn't know where to go when Charles embraced her. Such a contrast from Christopher's tenderness and concern for her pleasure; such a lack of arousal on her part that she knew it was going to be physically painful as well as emotionally. Tears began to stream from the corners of her eyes, wetting her face, but Charles was never aware enough of her emotions even to notice. It was the first time Caroline was glad of that.

Thankfully it ended quickly, as it always did with Charles.

_Until Christopher I didn't know I'd ever _want_ it to last longer._ She knew now there were sensations in her body that her husband had never stimulated. _But Charles has never cared about that, any more than he's cared about my feelings. The "act" is about him and about children—in that order—and that's all._

To her relief Charles silently left her bed and returned to his own rooms.

She tried to think pleasant thoughts; thoughts of her and her darling together. But she was unable to think of her sweet Christopher while the smell of Charles was on her. She wanted nothing more than to take a bath, but in this household that would not go unnoticed; she would have to wait until morning. In pain in every sense and feeling desolate, she gave way to her tears and sobbed herself into a restless sleep.

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Christopher threaded his fingers through Caroline's as they slowly walked the wooded edge of the lake. It was rare and wonderful to be together outdoors and in public in a way they could not be in St Leonards and environs… and spring was truly setting in at last.

The whitewashed Somerset cottage belonging to Caroline's cousin was a perfect escape, despite only basic amenities. All they needed was a place to be with each other.

Caroline smiled at his puzzled, studious expression, and stopped. "Penny for them."

As he looked out over the sparkling water he was thinking back to the previous Saturday. An "extra" day for them, as he had not known that Charles Devereaux had suddenly decided to meet with friends that day. Caroline had told Charles and the servants that she would be running errands for the hospital again, and she headed straight for her love.

En route, she wanted desperately to be back in Christopher's arms after her awful Friday night, but she was in such a nervous state as he opened his door to her that she didn't even wish to be touched. He'd been so very pleasantly surprised to see her, and yet she walked past him and began to pace. His smile quickly faded when he saw the agitated look in her weary eyes. It reminded him of that day in the ward—the day she had told him about crying all night when she realised how everyone knew of her husband's unfaithfulness.

"Caroline, what's wrong?"

She just shook her head wordlessly, feeling frustration because she couldn't even find a way to explain this edginess that plagued her.

"Come here."

Caroline threw herself into his arms and hugged him with a strength he didn't know she possessed.

He held her for many minutes there just inside the door, knowing not to kiss her just yet; knowing to wait and let her tell him in her own time what was making her seem ready to jump out of her skin. Caroline sighed as she felt herself begin to relax at last. The queasiness and restlessness flowed away as she felt her lover's hand softly stroking her hair.

Christopher had wanted to tell her that whatever it was, they could work through it, but he wasn't sure that was true. Whatever it was, perhaps they could try to forget it for one day—they had successfully done so before—but each time he thought about the future he felt a stab of hopelessness about their affair.

After an hour or so he had brought her tea, which seemed to fully calm her at long last. His second surprise of the day had been when she had proposed this idea of his accompanying her the following weekend to Cousin Francesca and her husband David's cottage by Blagdon Lake.

* * *

><p>Four days. Friday evening, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and most of Tuesday to live together as if it were their right, and to sleep each night in the same bed.<p>

Now Christopher returned to the present as she squinted at him in the late Friday afternoon sun. He heard a gull give cry as he looked in her eyes with a small, questioning smile.

"I was wondering what had you so nervous last week. Not that you aren't entitled to have nerves now and then," he went on, "or to refuse my advances." He winked at her, but to his dismay she looked perturbed. "Ah… I shouldn't joke about that," he chastised himself, pulling her into his embrace. "You just didn't feel well."

_Should I tell him? Would he understand?_

Caroline squelched tears and shook her head against his shoulder as if in answer to herself, although it was more of a head-shake of despair. Christopher thought she was merely indicating agreement that she had not been herself.

He traced the smooth outline of her upturned ear. _God._ He wanted the sweet, delicate-boned creature in his arms to be his always, so that he could protect her, draw joy from her.

Between reporting back to hospital for rehabilitation exercises and rarely visiting with neighbours and friends, he had entirely too much time to think. Perhaps, he had thought more than once, she should be divorced regardless; if he made it back in one piece she could marry him the sooner; if he were killed, well…

Devereaux had shown her boredom and unkindness—even cruelty—and she'd never come to be happy with him; of that Christopher was sure. She was a beautiful, lively woman. She'd survive any societal disapproval and find another man to marry.

_Someone with even more of her sense of fun than you, and someone with more to give her than life as the wife of a police constable._

Then Foyle would feel both ridiculous and wryly amused by his jealousy of this hypothetical suitor.

For Caroline's part, she wouldn't hesitate to marry Christopher now if she were free. _Even if I were, she thought now, he would insist that I wait rather than risk widowhood, or being tied to a broken man._

So many young men like her Christopher would not come back. Or if they returned they would be changed in such a way as to make them different people. Christopher had tried to talk with her about the possibility of his death, but it was just too much to think about. Speaking about it aloud was something she couldn't bear.

And yet, she knew the possibilities while trying with all her heart not to know them. Her work at the hospital illustrated in vivid colours what might become of her lover—what very likely would become of him when he returned to France.

_No, no, no! He __**will**__ come back to me. I know that he will. Then I'll marry him and have his children, and we'll share everything about a life together—but with happiness. Not this sense of resignation I've had with Charles. We'll be happy just as we are now, away together, just we two._

_Now is all I'll think of, the joy of now and nothing else._

* * *

><p>When they returned from their exploration of the lake they were oddly tentative; a week had gone by since Caroline's nervous Saturday, and they had not seen each other since.<p>

He closed the curtains and very gently kissed her lips.

She drew back and looked deep into his eyes. "Do you ever think about the children we shall have someday?"

Christopher's blue eyes dimmed with melancholy.

_She __**does**__ dream of a life together…_

He tried to smile. "I do."

Caroline nuzzled his ear as she went on, "A boy as strong and as brave as his father… "

His smile twisted. "God willing, he won't have to prove that bravery in war." Lightly touching her downy cheek, he joined in her fantasy. "…A girl as brave and beautiful and sunny as you."

Two young people with no experience in what it was to share true love physically had learned together every aspect of each other, in such a way that their bodies and spirits were enmeshed. _If we do create children someday, _each thought now,_ they will grow up with such love—but they'll also be remarkable and caring people by their very birthright._

"I love you," she whispered fiercely, holding him so tightly that he nearly couldn't breathe. He pulled away slightly and gazed at her with widened eyes, nodding wordlessly, but something about the nod was like the slight stutter he would sometimes have when he was startled or overwhelmed. Feeling her tears start at his sweet vulnerability she kissed him, tenderly but with conviction, and the longer the kiss became, the more deep and impassioned.

Caroline felt his hesitance vanish as his arousal intensified and he made a long low sound that thrilled her. The devotion and support they felt for each other were expressed in these intimate moments as much as their desire, and she felt completely safe and confident even when susceptible and open to him. No matter how wild they became together there still was a deeply loving, almost worshipful quality to their coupling. It was heaven for her to bring him pleasure.

* * *

><p>Christopher awoke with a sigh. He propped himself up on one elbow and for many minutes just gazed down at the slumbering Caroline in the soft light of the oil lamp, lightly stroking the velvety skin of her face, his mouth tugging at one corner at how deeply she always slept after love. He found even this wondrous and unbearably sweet: this evening he would not have to wake her and remind her that she needed to hurry away. There would be all of tonight and three more nights for him to fall asleep with her in his arms.<p>

_Though Monday night I shan't be able to sleep a wink, thinking that it may be the last…_

Their simple meals together, reading to each other, games of backgammon and walks and dreams would pass so quickly, he knew.

_Don't think about it for now. Just pretend this is how it always will be._

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><p><em>TBC…<em>


	14. Chapter 14

Title: The Long Shadow

Authors: dancesabove and jewell

Rating: T+

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in _Foyle's War_ belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and we in no way profit from the story we've written.

Feedback: Always very welcome. Let us know!

**Authors' Note: An epilogue will follow this chapter.**

* * *

><p>Chapter 14<p>

When she looked back on it, Caroline had known for weeks before she admitted it to herself. She somehow knew what it was, the odd-but-not-unpleasant feeling deep within her. She knew it, but hadn't put a name to it until now.

She was pregnant.

With the nausea and now missing another monthly, there was no doubt.

On the surface there was no hint of scandal—she was a married woman who was expecting. A Blessed Event. But underneath the respectable trappings was her belief that the baby was a child created by love, not duty. It was Christopher's baby. She felt that with all her heart and soul. _It had to be._

And if she believed it was Christopher's baby that she carried and not her husband's, what then? Christopher had received his orders just last week. In seven days he was to embark on the SS Folkestone bound for France and then to his unit entrenched in the Belgian countryside east of Calais. The fighting in France seemed to grow more intense as this year drew on, and the casualty lists grew longer still.

The four days for which she and Christopher had slipped away were still fresh in her mind. It had been a wondrous, passion-filled interlude. It was easy to imagine life with this man—her love, her lover—just this way in future. There had been one evening in front of the fire in the lakeside cottage when Christopher had spoken of their future—perhaps emboldened by Caroline's dreamy question that first night about the child they might someday have. She gulped and pressed her hands together in front of her face now to think of it, because the child had already been forming…

Christopher had sat on the rug near the fire with Caroline's back tucked against his chest, lightly stroking her arms, his lips pressed against her hair. He had spoken forthrightly, even starkly, about what their future away from war and together would be like.

"Being married to a policeman is a harder life than many women expect, y'know," he told her miserably. He thought of the large staff of servants at Whitefriars; in various of their conversations she had mentioned several employees. "Not much domestic help—maybe, in time, a girl to help with cooking and cleaning and a man to come in once a week to deal with the garden and such. But the wife—but you—would have to do the lion's share of the housework, and not only that, make do on a policeman's salary. Which isn't very much," he finished lamely.

Caroline shifted so that he cradled her and she could look him in the eye. "I think it sounds wonderful. I know I'll be surprised at the amount of work it takes… but it _will_ be a smaller house." She smiled at him so warmly that he longed to believe that it might not matter to her. He knew that she loved his little cottage.

"But I do have some idea… whenever my family took an extended holiday, it was just us. Mrs Morton, our cook, and Nanny Sarah had their holiday then, too."

Caroline thought now about the hope that had dawned in his eyes at her enthusiasm. No, it wasn't the thought of life as a policeman's wife that gave her much turmoil; it was life without her dear constable if he failed to return.

Life by herself, divorced and disgraced, to raise a child on her own.

If she divorced Charles, even her own parents might not take her in. Not only would she not have servants, she might have to hire herself out to provide a home for herself and her baby. Of course she would love any child of Christopher's with all the energy she had left after working long hours, but… _What kind of a life would that be for the child?_

Especially when she contrasted that life with the one the baby would have growing up as the eldest son or daughter of Sir Charles Devereaux. The child would be loved, well cared for, and well educated. Her little one would then have all the advantages that only a few children in England were privileged to receive: a doctor almost instantly available for childhood diseases, good and abundant food, a nanny, a governess—and then admission to the best schools in the land. And the advantages wouldn't stop after childhood. A dowry for a girl, an inheritance and a title for a boy.

Yesterday she and Anna had read the casualty lists just sent from France. Together they had counted the names; the numbers were appalling. The news of the French forces fighting at Verdun was even more shocking. And Christopher was returning to it. In seven days.

It was not likely that Christopher would return from Belgium or France. Or if he did return, could he even work as a policeman? The hospital continued to receive more and more wounded. Artillery attacks caused missing limbs and mangled bodies. The gas attacks left young men blind and in agony with bad lungs. Perhaps her perception of Christopher's chance of return was coloured dark by her work in the hospital. Perhaps. But could she take that chance for her child?

Charles was not an evil man. He had never been any more violent than to yell at her occasionally—usually when she had done something to provoke him. He would be pleased that she was pregnant, especially if the baby turned out to be a boy. An heir… that was what would make Charles happy. And then, perhaps, she could learn to love him after all. And even if she didn't, it was what was best for the child she was carrying.

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><p>Five days before he was to ship out, Christopher and Caroline planned to meet near Hastings Pier. In the middle of the week it was less likely there would be people about, and she told him she'd be at her milliner's that afternoon. In truth she did not want them to be in the cottage when she told him what she needed to tell him. That would make it impossible for her to say goodbye.<p>

She got there first, shivering slightly in the sea breeze, despite the warmth of the sun and the long lightweight wrap she was wearing. He saw her rub her arms for warmth as he stood at the railing alongside Eversfield Place watching her, trying to memorise her; then he walked down to make his way to her across the sand.

The movement caught her eye and she watched him approach, looking heart-rendingly handsome in his new high-collared wool dress uniform, despite the fact that his weight loss had made it hang slightly on his frame. This was accentuated by the broad, S-hooked belt fastened trim at his waist. Leather leggings wrapped from knee to boot below his jodhpurs and his buttons and silk braid shone bright.

The joy that lit up his face when he caught her eyes was the image of his face that she wanted to remember from this day. The rest of it would be too painful to recall.

He tried to smile as he noticed her troubled countenance and pulled her into his arms for a brief but intimate kiss.

"Darling," he said hoarsely, "I'll miss you so much, but just knowing—"

"Christopher, I'm pregnant."

She watched as several emotions flitted across his expressive face. The first she saw was sheer happiness, and seeing that almost dissipated her resolve. Worry, alarm, sadness—and finally, love.

"You're going to have our child… that's wonderful," Christopher's words were almost convincing. Caroline didn't doubt that he was sincere about wanting the baby, but the uncertainty of their future tempered his joy.

Caroline steeled herself. _It's for our child. This is the only solution._

"Not _our _child, Christopher. My child. Mine and Charles's."

The devastation on her lover's face was terrible to see. She looked away so she wouldn't falter. So she wouldn't throw her arms around the man she truly loved and beg him to marry her. She kept her eyes from his until he spoke.

"_Not_ our child? But, you mean… ?" His face said it all. It had never occurred to him that she would have, _could_ have, been with Charles in the past months.

"Christopher, I'm so sorry. I can't see you again, and I want you to promise that you'll never, ever try to contact me again, whatever happens."

"Caroline, _no…_"

She quailed and tried to shut out the agony in his voice, to hide from him that it ripped her soul. Clenching shut her eyes, she braced herself again. "Now I have to think about the child, so I'm going back to Charles. There's no other way. You don't know him. Please, for the sake of everything we've been to one another, please forget me."

His eyes, wide with shock, gazed blindly at the sand. He exhaled a shaky breath, but before he could speak, she turned away.

"Christopher, I'll _always_ love you… but it has to be this way. Goodbye."

"_Caroline!"_

She walked towards the steps leading away from the beach. Midway up them her determination faltered; she turned back to look at him. He hadn't moved; even from this distance she could see the pain etched on his face and repeated in his body. He stood defeated and questioning. But she left him there.


	15. Epilogue

Title: The Long Shadow

Authors: dancesabove and jewell

Rating: T+

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in _Foyle's War_ belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and we in no way profit from the story we've written.

Feedback: Thank you, readers, for the wonderful comments. Hearing more rumors just the last few days that _Foyle's War_ could return! We do hope it's true…

* * *

><p><em>Epilogue<em>

November 1945

Foyle's journey to America had not taken too long; almost as much time was spent on travelling and awaiting travel as on putting Paige in gaol. Paige was now sitting in a small cell awaiting extradition to Great Britain; it was sure to happen soon.

The former Detective Chief Superintendent had only been back in Hastings for two days when James Devereaux called and asked to meet him for dinner. They met at the Royal Victoria Hotel and shared a congenial meal. James caught Christopher up on the details of his life since mid August: when he was released, where he was living and the disposition of his father's property, which was still quite tied up in legalities.

Foyle held up his end of the conversation by telling many amusing tales of Americans and their odd ways. For the most part he glossed over the true purpose of the trip.

James offered to drive Foyle back to his house after the meal, and when they arrived, Foyle invited James in for a drink.

They were seated across from each other in front of the fire, each holding a glass of Jack Daniel's bourbon Foyle had brought back.

_It's odd, this young man sitting across from me as Andrew has done so many times. Something is troubling him—how can I help?_

"So James, how are you feeling?"

"Quite well, I believe, considering… " James trailed off. The man had been through a lot in his young life. It was almost unimaginable: witnessing the murder of his mother by his father, the bloody battle at Dunkirk, prisoner of war for three years, the bombing of Dresden, and a trial for treason.

James cleared his throat. "I've been seeing your Dr Novak, and I think it's helping."

Dr Novak was a friend of Foyle's who had been convicted of manslaughter. Due to the circumstances of the killing he had been put on supervision for three years instead of facing prison. He was living in Hastings with his daughter and still working at the hospital helping war veterans.

"Glad to hear it." Foyle could see it was going to take some coaxing to get the young Devereaux to say what was on his mind, though he thought he might have some inkling…

"James, you know I said if there should be anything I could do to help you when I returned from America… "

James sat silently looking at the floor with an occasional glance up at Christopher. The older man sat patiently.

After more than a minute had passed, James took a deep breath and asked, "Mr Foyle, are you my father?"

_Hmm. I was right._

"It's possible," Foyle answered after a pause. "There's no sure way of knowing."

He went on, "If you knew your mother's blood type and your… father's blood type and… uh… mine, you might be able to know. But even then it's not definite. For instance, if my blood type were to be the same as your father's… "

Foyle glanced up. "_Do_ you know your mother's blood type? Or your—or Charles Devereaux's?"

James slowly shook his head.

"No. It would be odd if you did." Christopher Foyle's usual deliberate way of speaking was heightened by this somewhat uncomfortable subject. They were, after all, discussing the young man's mother and an adulterous affair. He sighed.

"You were born when?"

"1916. 10th December."

"Yesss." Foyle drew out the word as he calculated. "Then the timing makes it possible that I _am_ your father."

Neither spoke for a few minutes.

Finally Foyle said softly, his eyes tightly closed, "I loved your mother very much. I understood her decision to return to Charles for the sake of her child. I had orders in hand to return to France. She thought Charles offered safety and stability; all I could offer was love—and an absent love at that."

He looked at James. "Throughout the years I thought about you on occasion, but especially when Caroline died. A few years later I was raising my son on my own. You hold your head like Andrew at times, and some of your facial expressions are the same. It could be… "

James gave a rueful smile and said, "I'd prefer to be your son than the son of a murderer, of course. Than the son of a man who never let me get close. I'd like to get to know you better; I have no other family."

"I would welcome the chance to know Caroline's son."

They smiled at each other, each holding back tears of remembrance.

The two talked on for quite a while. They set a firm date to get together again and discussed James meeting Andrew. Together they decided that James should call the older man "Christopher". Foyle then, almost shyly, asked if he could call James "Jack", as his mother had.

"I'd like that quite a lot," 'Jack' replied with a wistful smile.

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><p>Jack left shortly after this. Foyle had welcomed him to stay there, but he had already taken a room at the Plume of Feathers. After seeing him out, Foyle returned to the sitting room and crouched to bank the coals. He paused before doing so and slowly stood. He poured up another two fingers of whisky and leaned back in his chair.<p>

Such a maelstrom of memories, feelings and regrets. There was no way he could sleep now, no matter how late it might be.

How was he to tell Andrew? "Andrew, you have a brother, maybe." Andrew would be shocked. His staid old dad having a torrid affair with a married woman. And in the course of that affair possibly fathering a child.

Yes, Andrew would be shocked. Andrew believed that Rosalind was the love of his life. Of course Rosalind _was_ the love of his life, but he had loved Caroline… Loved her desperately, even after she had left him near the Hastings Pier.

He thought back to the dark days after she'd left him.

He'd wandered back to his parents' house and immediately decided he couldn't stay there. Not in this place, not in his bed, nowhere that they had been so happy. He quickly packed a kit bag, spoke to Mrs Neagle about looking after the house, and went to the station, where he waited three hours for a train that would take him to Leicester. He didn't feel he was "running home to mother"; it was just a destination. Somewhere that wasn't here.

Visiting Mum brought no solace. She was weak and bedridden. She was pleased to see him, but seemed confused at times—called him by his father's name more than once—and would drift off abruptly. Aunt Ivy had looked more and more worried for him as she cared for her sister and witnessed the young man's silent dismay.

Late that night he and Aunt Ivy talked.

"I'm so sorry, Christopher, that you didn't get to see your father before he left us."

"It had been weeks by the time I got your letter. Without your letters I'd have felt even more disconnected. And how kind you have been to Mum…" he couldn't help it. He dropped his head into his hands and fought to hold back tears.

His aunt looked down at him with great sympathy, petting his soft hair. "It's all made worse. You can see how little will she has… she is fading."

He only nodded, struggling to overcome the urge to sob.

Ivy went to make him some cocoa and returned to find him wringing his hands.

"But there's something else, too," she said sagely. "Who is the girl you must leave behind?"

Christopher was startled that Ivy could read him so well. He told her the basics of his love and her inability to wait for him, leaving out that the woman had been married and was now expecting a child.

His kind aunt then spoke of love and war and the difficulties they caused the young. At the time it helped but little, but in the ensuing months he would often think back on his conversations with Aunt Ivy and take comfort.

Intellectually, he could agree with the decision Caroline had made. His reasonable side loved her, too, and wanted her life to be happy and full without the worry of his return.

Emotionally he both loved and hated her. Hated her for leaving, hated her for carrying Charles' child. How could she? After what they had shared, how could she have been with Charles? The child, Charles' child. Or was it?

All too soon he had to leave for Southampton and France. His mother cried, Aunt Ivy silently wept, but Christopher's eyes were dry, at least in front of the two women. He knew that he would not see his mother again and that made his desolation complete.

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><p>Sergeant Foyle stood dockside in Southampton awaiting the time to board the Folkestone. His strong sense of duty compelled him to make the trip to France. He looked around him and saw that the men who were returning had congregated slightly away from the fresh-faced replacement troops. They stood wordlessly together. They didn't know each other's names but they knew each other. The jittery youngsters talking excitedly in the other group were the unknowns. He saw them glance nervously towards his group.<p>

He walked a short way down the dock. An Argentinean cargo ship, the Mariposa, was berthed adjacent to the SS Folkestone. He studied the ship carefully. He'd heard of men escaping to South America to avoid conscription. _Why didn't he?_ Duty. Christ; at times he felt as if he and the others were just running at top speed towards a cliff.

But just now it did not matter to him that he might be doomed. His mother was dying, his lover had left him to bear a child with another man. He was going back to France to die. And he did not care.

* * *

><p>Years later an older Foyle shook his head to clear it of the dark memories, and drank the last bit of whisky. His mother had died and he had never heard from Caroline again. But he hadn't died in France—he had met Rosalind just weeks after he had returned for good. And just as he had told Elizabeth a few years ago, marrying Rosalind had changed everything.<p>

His life had turned out as it should have. The pain and the sorrow, but also the joy and the love. And now another young man had entered his life.

It did not matter who was Jack's father; Caroline was his mother. And Christopher Foyle loved him just because of that.

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><p><em><span>The End<span>_


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